


Get Stoned

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: M/M, Mental Abuse, mentions of eating disorders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2013-11-13
Packaged: 2018-01-01 09:45:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1043360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chester and Brad are always breaking up; but the violent, angry make-up sex makes all the heartache worth it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get Stoned

With Chester, there’s always something. This particular something right now is picking out his outfit for the What I’ve Done video shoot. The wardrobe assistant is waving a black leather jacket in his face and saying “I know you’re a rock star, but that doesn’t mean you can just throw all my ideas in my face. I’m not paid enough to take the crap you’re giving me.”

She throws the jacket over the closest chair and storms out of the trailer, barging past Brad who hovers in the doorway, “What’d you say to her?”

“The outfit she gave me,” Chester says, staring at his reflection in the floor to ceiling mirror moodily, “it makes me look fat.”

Brad steps into the trailer and rolls his eyes, “You’re not fat, Chester.”

“Yeah well, look at you. You’re rail thin. So it’s okay for you.”

He really isn’t fat, though. And the outfit he’s wearing proves that. He looks amazing, his hair gelled and his clothes all new. Brad used to think Chester was an attention seeker, but over time he realised that he just really hates himself.

Mostly Brad can’t be bothered with him, and usually he’d say ‘yeah, you look like a hippo in those jeans’ but right now they have a video shoot, and they can’t afford for Chester to storm off set.

Last week it was Brad asking if, maybe, Chester would like to come to a club. And Chester saying that yeah, he’d love to. Then breaking down in the doorway of the club nearly in tears. Apparently he was under-dressed. Nobody would recognise him because he’s a nobody here anyway.

They went home, and Brad watched Chester cry himself to sleep before he went downstairs and smoked a joint. When Chester woke up at four in the morning to see Brad, sprawled out on his couch, drunk on his vodka and smoking his weed he blew a fuse.

“What the fuck is your problem?”

“I needed to unwind,” Brad snapped, “What’s your problem? You’re the one with the self-hatred issues.”

Chester glared at him coldly before reaching out, plucking the joint from between Brad’s fingers and smoking what was left. He straddled the guitarist’s waist and leaned in, growling in his ear, “You’re such an insensitive fuck.”

“Yeah,” Brad said, “But I’m hot, too.”

If it was anybody else Brad would have told them to fuck off, and that he couldn’t handle their emotional baggage. But this was Chester, and he was so hard to ignore. Plus, when Chester was wound up Brad just had to press a few buttons to make him angry. And angry, violent sex with Chester was better than any other kind.

They break up a lot too. It hurts, he supposes, but the make-up sex makes it worth it.

“Just put the jacket on,” Brad says, standing behind him and eyeing him up in the mirror, “Then we can shoot the video.”

“Mike’s video.”

“Our video.”

“Mike thinks he’s Bono.”

“You think you’re Scott Weiland,” Brad rolls his eyes, “but who’s keeping score?”

***

Finally on set, under the blazing desert sun, Chester grabs his microphone and draws an angry face in the dirt with his foot.

“You ready?” Mike asks and Chester just nods, waiting for the music.

Mike had said that political images were the way to go for the video. Nazis, oil spills, eating disorders, war. Those are the kind of things that stir people’s hearts, he said, not self harming teenagers.

Chester had just nodded absently, “Sure,” and not mentioned that he thought self harming teenagers were just as big a deal as someone who doesn’t eat.

Now, standing under the heat of the sun and the flood lights, Chester screams silently into his microphone.

***

The crew are busy shooting Rob’s pick-up shots as he drums, next is Phi, then Joe, then Brad and finally Mike and Chester together. That gives Brad plenty of time to follow Chester to his trailer and lock the door after him.

The singer is lounging on the couch with a cold beer in one hand dripping condensation onto the cheap carpet, “What do you want?” He hisses.

“To make up with you,” Brad says, pulling off his shirt and folding it neatly on the table. His pants go next, along with his shoes. God forbid he gets them dirty. In one shot of the video he’s clean, in the next there’s a mysterious stain on his shirt.

Chester sets his beer down calmly, “Who says I want you to make up with me? Who says I give a shit anymore?”

Brad laughs, reaching out and unbuttoning the singer’s shirt, pulling off his shades, “I know you want me. Who else do you have, really? Joe and Dave are sick of your shit, Rob couldn’t care less, and Mike only cares about himself.”

As he slips a hand into Chester’s pants Brad whispers in his ear, “Who do you have to rely on? But me?”

They fuck on the couch, and when he comes Chester arches his back and hums a few bars of What I’ve Done. Brad laughs, his voice low and breathless.

He says, “Don’t think that there is anyone else, Chester. Don’t think you could last without me.”

Lying there, sweat soaked and more than a little dehydrated, basking in the afterglow, Chester whispers “Hands of uncertainty.” He sighs softly, shudders against Brad’s warm body and whispers, “Let mercy come.”


End file.
